Provide support and comfort (Post-ep for 08x09)
by leuska
Summary: It's after midnight when she tiredly slips the door shut behind her back. She takes a moment to rest her back against the familiar press of wood and metal. Exhaustion seeps from under her skin, out through her pores and into the dark quietness surrounding her. (Insert/post-ep for 8x09 Tone Death)


**Provide support and comfort**

 _(Insert/post-ep for 8x09_ _Tone Death)_

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 _A/N: Though she'd never go as far as call her work on this chapter betaing – because she's just nice like that – the truth is this story was mightily improved by her fine touch and gentle suggestions. Thank you,_ _bravevulnerability_ _, for your invaluable input._

* * *

It's after midnight when she tiredly slips the door shut behind her back. She takes a moment to rest her back against the familiar press of wood and metal. Exhaustion seeps from under her skin, out through her pores and into the dark quietness surrounding her.

She makes herself move, kicking away her heels, the bones of her toes popping. Her feet pad quietly over the well-worn wooden floors as she glides through the darkness, drawn by the single light – a beacon – shining from his bedroom.

 _Their_ bedroom, she quickly berates herself. This is her home too.

Svetlana and Dr. Livingstone had most definitely treated it as such only a couple of hours ago. Before an impromptu text had dragged her ass out of bed, from under the sheets and the warmth of her husband's embrace. Right into the mouth of the seedy strip club and to Vikram's new lead that had once again proven to be a dead-end.

Beckett halts in the bedroom's open doorway, her eyes coming to rest on his softly illuminated frame. He's asleep, half of his body buried under the covers. Clad only in his pajama bottoms, his chest is still bare, a book and - _hah!_ \- the stethoscope they had had so much fun with earlier tangled in the covers at his side.

His reading glasses – only a recent acquire she's been mercilessly teasing him about – are askew across his face, smashed between the pillow and the side of his cheek. The way they dig against his skin looks painful, and yet, he's sound asleep.

It's obvious he's been waiting up for her, even though she told him not to. Sweet man.

He gives the slightest of snores before he burrows even deeper into the pillows, the glasses now completely awry, nearly off his face, but he merely smacks his lips, jaw relaxed with sleep. A smile breaks across her face and the sight of him propels her to step further into the room, the bed filled with the warmth of his body, beckoning her tired substance like a siren's calling.

She quickly sheds her coat, the rest of her clothes following suit. Her face wrinkles and she tries not to dwell on the fact that she's had these clothes on and off twice today. She leaves the single bedside lamp burning, wants to see his features, still so desperate and hungry for what she has begrudged herself for so long.

Only in her underwear, she pushes the covers away and crawls across the bed, her eyes intent on him, a tigress stalking it's prey. She presses her body against his and splays her fingers wide over his chest, but he only gives a small sigh, doesn't wake. He shifts though, orientating towards her even in his sleep, and something in her chest shifts, her heart suddenly swollen and full with how precious this is, to have him, to call him hers.

Despite that it's only the two of them who know the truth right now.

The wedding band feels suddenly heavy on her finger, the responsibility weighting her down.

She raises her right hand up, her fingers caressing Castle's face in the lightest of touches. She smoothes away his floppy bangs, carefully removes the glasses, and collects the book and stethoscope, can't help the smile that splits her face at the thought of what they had done with it only a couple of hours ago. She turns and lays the objects onto her bedside table and when she twists back, he's still miraculously asleep.

It makes her smile. It makes her heart ache too. Because he looks like he needs the rest.

Her fingers paint his face, eyes seeking out his features greedily, memorizing once again what she so willing gave away for those couple of weeks. Weeks that had felt like such an incredibly long time.

The back of her fingers skims his left cheek, the warm flesh reminding her of the slap she bestowed him earlier this day. Unwarranted and solely to feed their narrative.

She just hopes it'll all be worth it.

"Hey," he murmurs and she realizes his eyes have opened, are roaming her face with a pleased and a somewhat dumbstruck expression settled across his face. "You're finally home."

She doesn't let herself dwell on the possible double meaning, knows he hasn't meant what she now reads into his words, a reprimand for her abrupt abandonment a couple of weeks prior. So instead, she closes the gap between them, settling on waking him with the heat of her mouth. When she finally withdraws after a couple silent, blissful moments, she's pleased to see him fully awake now, eyes luminous and focus trained solely on her.

"Hey," she whispers, gives a bashful smile in reply to his knowing smirk.

"Missed me?" he jokes, wiggling his eyebrows at her, and it makes her let out a bark of laughter before she curls her body tighter around his.

She hums, shrugs her shoulders noncommittally, feigning carelessness, to which he responds with a growl, pushing against her. He has them flipped in a flash, her back now pinned to the mattress and his body pleasantly weighing her down, the feeling familiar and oh so right. Their skins touch and rub in all the right places, and a merry giggle spills past her lips before his mouth fuses against hers, his tongue quick to delve inside her mouth.

 _Home._ So good to be home.

* * *

They fool around, making out, laughing and giggling like a pair of teenagers, enjoying the only truly good aspect to their forced separation – the thrill of their secret trysts – in the dead of night.

There is a lull in their activities, a moment of quiet when she rest her chin against the broadness of his chest, the both of them just looking at each other, silence doing all the necessary talking. Her right hand travels upward, softly resting against his cheek.

"I am sorry for this, babe," she murmurs earnestly, her thumb caressing the flesh under his eye, even though her slap hadn't left a visible mark.

His smile grows, then morphs into a grin.

"You do slap pretty hard," he concedes, holding her gaze until her head falls forward, buried against the crook of his neck. The moan she lets out is half-amused, half-mortified. Another apology is mumbled against his throat, followed by the press of her lips, and this time he laughs out loud, amused by the shame that stems from her earlier attempt at maintaining their cover.

There is nothing to hold against her, though. It's part of the game, of the show they put on for their friends, their colleagues, the whole world really. They agreed on it. Unanimously. He knew there would be sacrifices. And this kind? Oh, this kind is actually one he fully enjoys.

"You were kind of hot, enraged liked that and calling me a jerk," he hums good-naturedly, feeling her face pressing tighter against his neck even as one of her hands comes up to slap his chest in a silent rebuke.

So much for apologies.

Her head pulls back and her face reappears, so close to his, a soft smile playing on her lips as she regards him, her eyes liquid and warm as they lazily roam his features.

Sometimes it makes him wonder. What she sees when she looks at him. How she sees it. How she sees him.

He _is_ a writer, after all. He wants the story. His ego has absolutely nothing to do with it. Nope, not the least bit.

The furrow of her brow creases, drawn together adorably as she appears to be mulling something over in her mind. She bites her lip again, the gesture intimately familiar now.

"I am also sorry for that other thing," she finally confesses, her voice thick with guilt.

"What other thing?" He honestly has no idea.

"You know," she murmurs, her eyes momentarily shying away before she returns her gaze to him. "Svetlana…Dr. Livingstone…the cheating slash dating other people thing." She shrugs, going for nonchalant but failing miserably.

So it does bother her. He was wondering. She's been so uncharacteristically casual about it, joking about his name choice for his alleged mistress and completely disregarding the fact their friends thought them to be beyond repair, that it made him question the sincerity of her dismissal of the importance of the issue. Her palm's now absentmindedly stroking his chest, eyes straying away as one of her nails lightly scrapes against his skin.

"Oh yes, Dr. Livingstone," he starts excitedly, having none of it. "Admire that guy. Such a hero. A drop-dead gorgeous life-saving neurosurgeon by the day, secret hot-shot lover by night."

She does smile at that, but it's dimmed, doubt still clouding her features as she repeatedly runs the pad of her thumb across one of his eyebrows. What he likes is that at least she's not trying to hide the sadness she's feeling from him, her face an open book. "Yeah, well. I didn't want to make you the bad guy here. Not the only bad guy, that is."

"You know," he muses, putting one of his arms behind his head before continuing, "I am actually quite offended the guys were so quick to believe that."

"I know, right!" she agrees, nodding her head. "Unbelievable."

"Right," he puffs. "Like they didn't know first hand how crazy I am about you. Svetlana, pffsh," he snorts in disbelief, but she's grown somber again.

"Still. I am so sorry, Castle. I- I know that cheating is a sore subject with you."

It is. Well, it was. But it's not anymore. The mention doesn't even make him wince. Not since he has Kate. Meredith is ancient history. And he has Alexis. Would never trade that for anything.

"Hey, no." he placates. "Don't worry about it, sweetheart. It's okay. I don't care about how it looks to the world, don't care about the publicly staged fights and accusations. So long as they aren't true." He catches her eyes. "They aren't true, right? There is in fact no sexy neurosurgeon named Livingstone dating my wife, right?" That earns him a smile.

"No, babe. Never," she murmurs, catching his lips in a hot, wet kiss. "Just you," she murmurs against his lips before drawing back again, letting out a dissatisfied sigh. "It just seems so unfair to you. The way the boy treated you, how they immediately jumped to the wrong conclusions and made you pay while I, for the most part, stayed in their good graces."

He shrugs at her again, unbothered by it.

"Hey, it's only temporary," he offers, watches her nod vigorously. "So it doesn't matter in the long run. And once this is over and all cleared up," A dark, devious glint appears in his eyes, "I'll make the boys pay and squirm for the poor faith they had in you and me. And you'll graciously let me."

"Deal," she husks, her lips stretching into a wide smile before they seal once again over his.

"And in the meantime," he murmurs, never stopping the assault of his lips on hers, "we can just continue enjoying our little role-play."

He grunts as her leg glides over his lap, straddling him. "Whatever you say, Dr. Livingstone," she purrs back in a thick, Slavic accent. She grinds against him, coaxing another deep moan from his lips, his hands coming up to bracket her hips, trapping her against him.

He steals a glance at her, a devious smirk dancing across his lips. "Love you too, Svetlana. Love you too."


End file.
